


This city ain't big enough for the two of us

by Lyrae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Children, Dammit Jim, Death Wish, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Jim Has Issues, Kid Jim, Kid Sherlock Holmes, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock and Jim were playmates, Suicide, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: Jim and Sherlock used to play with each other as children, imagining weird worlds where cowboys fought with swords and criminals had a King. Years later, they meet on the rooftop, and really, nothing has changed.
Relationships: James Moriarty/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	This city ain't big enough for the two of us

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! This was written following the "western" prompt on amino, it's a bit weird but I hope y'all like it!

Sherlock knows Jim is going to die as much as he knows that stars are enormous celestial bodies made mostly of hydrogen, which means that he probably knew it at some point but that he found the information too inconsequential to bother remembering it. 

  
It's obvious after all, the villain always die in their little games and Jim is the best villain of them all. 

  
"This city ain't big enough for the two of us. " Jim sneers, squinting like he saw actors in movies squint, the thick American accent rolling off his tongue. 

  
It's ridiculous in his voice, incomprehensible in his mannerisms, Sherlock would have laughed if he wasn't aware the other was too far gone in the game to understand his amusement. 

  
"Then what now? " he asks, his hand grasping his toy sword. 

  
It's a strange universe that they weaved, one where lone cowboys wield pirates' sabers and criminals from the entire wild west bow before one King, where duels are fought with blades and mischievous faeries inhabit the canyons of their joined imagination. 

  
"Now we let our blood decide who will get to stay here as the other lies in Death's embrace. " Jim grins, cutting, sharp, and brandishes his stick. 

  
It looks nothing like a sword, not like Sherlock's does at least, it's just wood where the other's is made of hard plastic, but most things are like that anyway, and if their imagination can turn Jim's tattered clothes into the expensive frock coat that they both see, then it can also turn wood to steel. 

  
They fight after that, they dance, follow the smooth choreography they both constructed in the crannies of their own minds, and they fit somehow, Jim's wide strikes and Sherlock's quick thrusts.

Then Sherlock ends up with his sword against Jim's neck and the other laughs, because it's on purpose, it's always on purpose, he moves with too much flourishes, attacks with theatricality, leaves openings and waits for his opponent to take them. 

  
Sherlock almost never does, because it's easy, too easy, and he has always been one for complexity, so Jim is the one who presses his throat against the blade. 

  
"Do it do it do it. " he repeats again and again, until Sherlock isn't sure whether he's joking or not, until he almost wishes plastic was steel. 

  
He never does in the end, villains die but Jim is more than a simple antagonist, he's a concept, an idea, and he twirls on his heels, licking the taste of Death off his lips. 

\------------

  
Sherlock knows that Jim is going to die, he knows it before he sees the gun, before he sees the blood and the brain matter, he knows it because that rooftop became in his mind the main street of a small town from the west as soon as he stepped inside. 

  
Summer is long gone now, children separated years ago and Sherlock forgot, forgot about cowboys and criminals, about dark eyes and wooden swords, simply because drugs had swept most of his childhood memories away along with his college years. 

  
Still, Jim remains unchanged somehow. 

  
Oh, he grew of course, he is a scrawny boy no more and now he really wears expensive clothes, but on that rooftop, the look in his abyssal eyes is the same as it had been right before he placed Sherlock's sword against his throat. 

  
So they play, for the last time, follow that choreography they both know by heart, slash, wide opening, taunts, wide opening, exaggerated plea, wide opening-

  
Jim plays a game he wants to lose, and Sherlock simply plays along. 

  
_This city ain't big enough for the two of them after all._

  
This time Jim doesn't put a sword against his neck, the gun certainly isn't historically accurate, but it still makes more sense than a blade, and so when they shake hands, when they both make a pact with a devil of their own, Sherlock doesn't even think for one second that the bullet is for him. 

  
It's not how their games work, not how their little world function, Jim always dies in the end, and always by his own hand. 

  
They dance, one last pirouette, the criminal looks around and admires the universe they built for themselves, then the mussel is in his mouth and the bullet in his head. 

  
He almost feels sad. 

  
Sherlock knew Jim was going to die, just like some part of his mind idly remembered that suns were made of gas and that gravity was what bound the cosmos together, still, his death came like a shooting star, rippling through the sky of their imaginary West. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this!


End file.
